Couldn't Stand It
by Mrs Don Draper
Summary: Bond goes most of his life without parental figures, so when he is assigned to M, he can't help but latch on to her. The age play and minor sex scene within are not the central focus to the plot, but are definitely included.


When the anniversary of his parents' deaths comes around again, M is already well-prepared for all that the evening entails. She knows Bond will already be waiting for her in her house, most likely with a drink in his hand or maybe curled around a pillow on her couch, gun clasped tightly to him in his other hand. He'll already be ragged; she knows this for sure. He'll have run himself into the ground either through fierce physical demands or feral fucking or perhaps drinking himself into a drunken stupor in the days leading up to this one. He fills the hole inside himself in the only way he knows how. Whether it's productive or not is not the point. He never had the chance to learn any other ways. He had to grow up too quickly. And that's where M knows she comes in.

She has worked with him for many years now, so most of what he does no longer surprises her. Or very much, anyway. The first time he took hold of her hand while crossing the street was definitely disconcerting. She remembers pulling her hand away at first, shocked at his action, assuming him to be playing some sort of joke. The look on his face told a different story. He had looked as though she had smacked him across the face. Almost as if he would have preferred to be smacked than rejected, in his mind, in such a fashion. Worried, she took a moment's pause to compose herself and reached for his hand. Cautiously, he accepted. From then on, M never questioned why, at random moments-or perhaps not so random to him-he would take her by the hand. After the first time, they never spoke of it again.

Hand holding aside-she's had agents with far stranger hang ups-Bond was a superb agent. Always finished a job, and usually decently cleanly, though often or not, such care was not afforded to himself either by the villain or by his own choice. No, that job went to her as well. He would see himself to medical and get stitched, taped, or bandaged up, but not until he had at least spoken to her. And, on rare occasion, he would ask her to stay while the procedures were being done. He would grasp her hand in his, tightly, but not painfully so, as if to remind himself of her presence. When she squeezed back, the more intense lines of tension would leave him, almost as if such basic contact eased even a bit of his pain. If it did, she decided it was best not to question him.

The first time he kissed her was definitely a surprise, maybe even to the both of them. The mission had gone south. People had died who should not have had to but did anyway. Alcohol, pills, and women were not helping this time. Instead, he found himself at her place. The next logical step was to break in, wasn't it? M was obviously not expecting him, but he was more than distraught, and she didn't have it in her to turn him away this time. He looked so grateful when she told him could stay, that she would get him a blanket, but he needed to be out before she left for work. _It wouldn't do to have people talking, now would it?_ James' eyes lit up, though it didn't quite reach his mouth. When she handed him a pillow and blanket, he took them from her and pulled her in for a kiss. She remembers quite vividly the sound the slap across his face made, chaste though the kiss had been. It was his turn to be shocked.

"I-I-," he stammered.

She had looked on expectantly, waiting for some sort of explanation for his odd behavior.

"I'm sorry," he finished lamely. "I'll just go, shall I?"

She knew she should have told him to leave. To ask him just what in the bloody hell he thought he was doing. Why her? Didn't he have plenty of other women? Couldn't he bother one of them?

Instead she said, "Don't be silly. How can I keep an eye on you if you leave?"

The relief on his face was, again, significant.

Once he seemed to be settled on her couch, curled up like a child around a cushion, face burrowed into the pillow-her pillow-she knew she had made the right decision by letting him stay. Again, M decided to keep silent on the issue. As long as he was doing his job, it didn't matter what he did in the meantime. So what if he kissed her every now again. It didn't mean anything. Did it?

Her breaking point, however, was nearly met on one particularly trying experience. One that had been trying for the both of them. Concussed and nearly out of his mind, M can picture quite vividly holding his hand in the back of the ambulance while he was strapped to a stretcher.

"Don't leave me," he begged. "Please."

"Of course not, 007. We need you too much. You'll be fine in no time," she reassured him, hoping to keep him calm and quiet.

"Please. I couldn't stand it. Don't go away."

"Hush. Now you're just talking nonsense. I'm not going anywhere."

"You're all I've got, you know. No one else knows me. No one else loves me. I love you. I couldn't stand it if you left me."

"You don't know what you're saying. When you've got your head on straight, you'll feel more than a little foolish, Bond."

Tears were streaming from James' face now...Rivulets that ran into his ears. He paid them no mind. He opted instead to look at her with unfocused eyes.

"She left me. I loved her, and she left me." _Ah_, she thought, _one of his girls. Of course._ Then he continued. "At Skyfall. She left me. I love you. I couldn't stand it if you left me. I couldn't stand it."

She didn't say anything, his words suddenly taking on new meaning.

"I couldn't stand it. I couldn't. I couldn't stand it..."

When he recovered—at least physically—from that mission, there was no more pretending that what had been happening between them wasn't happening. She wasn't sure exactly how much he remembered from that ambulance ride, but it must have been enough. The next time she saw him after that, he had invited himself into her office, closed the door, walked to her side of the desk, and kissed her thoroughly. There was nothing chaste about it.

When he pulled away from her, he said, "I'm not sure how much I did or didn't say, but there's no use pretending that I don't desperately need you. Please."

He knelt in front of her then, head bowed, as if waiting for...something. A scolding? A punishment? A kiss? She wasn't sure. It could be any or all of those options, really. She settled for gently carding her fingers through his hair, trying not to remember how matted with blood it had been in the ambulance. She lightly scratched her nails across his scalp, and he visibly leaned into the touch. This had continued until she came to the realization that he was resting against her knees now, almost fast asleep on the floor of her office, looking more content than he has in a long while. She reluctantly pulled her hand away.

Immediately, his head snapped back up, and it's as if he only just then remembered that she is his superior, not his mother and that this is MI6, not his play room. He slowly picked himself up off the floor and steadied himself against her desk. He looked so tired.

"Are you going to be alright?" she ventured.

"No," he answered honestly.

She let out a sigh.

"It was twenty years ago today, you know."

Of course. How had she forgotten?

So M knows this night will go in a similar way the first one did. She'll find him in her house, finishing up his latest drink. She'll take it from his hand and give him tea instead. He won't fight her on it. When he's drunk all of it, she'll lead him carefully to the bath where she'll do all but bathe him since his hands will be clumsy from the alcohol. Her gentle hands will ease the tension away again as she helps him dry off, careful of any recent wound he might have incurred. She'll lend him a pair of her husband's night clothes. (He's not using them anymore anyway.) He'll climb into her bed, silent as he usually is for the first few hours of the evening. She'll join him after going through her own nightly routine. Inevitably, he will curl up behind her; sometimes he's hard, sometimes he isn't. She won't let him fuck her, but she forgives him if he has a wank, as long as he's clean about it. Whether that part happens or not, doesn't really matter. James will want her to hold him, so she does. Until he falls asleep.

The next morning, she'll wake up alone, but there will be a note on her kitchen table.

_I couldn't stand it if I didn't have you in my life. I'm sorry._ ~ James

She knows she could stop it any time she wants to. Could tell him how unprofessional and inappropriate all of this was. But every time she works up the nerve to say something, he'll walk into MI6 and smile at her or she'll find a bouquet of her favorite flowers on her desk, and she'll think to herself, "Perhaps next time."


End file.
